


the acclimatization society

by Lake (beyond_belief)



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Birdwatching, M/M, NPT Treat, sitting in a park
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-23 20:06:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19708486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beyond_belief/pseuds/Lake
Summary: The Library's a little warm, so John and Harold walk to a park.





	the acclimatization society

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Small_Hobbit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Small_Hobbit/gifts).



> Happy NPT, Small_Hobbit! I hope you enjoy. Mostly pre-slash, set sometime during S1.

"It's a bit sticky in here today, Finch," John says, carefully setting the paper cup containing Harold's tea down onto a clear part of the desk. "Less space, too. The computers breed overnight?"

Harold doesn't turn from the array of screens, but he does say, "Very funny, Mr. Reese."

John settles into the chair he's begun to refer to as _his_ and pops the lid from his own paper cup, letting the steam rise and the coffee cool slightly. From this angle, he can't quite make out all the things Harold's got up on the screens. "Working on something important?"

"Not anything you need to concern yourself with."

A whisper of annoyance tickles at John and he shifts minutely in the chair, then undoes one more button on his shirt. He'll do it up again before he goes outside, but it's only Finch in here, and he hasn't even looked at John yet this morning. It really is warmer in the library than he can remember it being ever before, and the hum of the fans in the various hard drive casings is louder than usual. He sips his coffee and thinks briefly about breakfast, then asks, "Did the Machine give us a number today?"

"No." Harold turns his chair slightly; John supposes it's easier than turning himself. "I should have told you not to bother."

"Not to bother with what?"

"Coming here." 

"Just because there's no number means we can't hang out?" John asks, using the rim of the cup to obscure his smile.

As he expected, Harold makes a soft huffing noise, so quiet John barely hears it over the whir of the fans. "It's definitely warmer than usual in here, Finch," he continues, feeling like he needs to advance the conversation. "Can't afford the air conditioning anymore?"

"John," Harold admonishes, and John chuckles. "I suppose you're right, this combination of East-facing windows, the new hardware, a breakdown in one of the cooling unit fans overnight... my own shoddy workmanship in the installation, I would imagine."

John lets his smile widen, knows Harold sees it this time. "How about we go for a walk? You look like you've been here for a while already today."

For a moment, he thinks Harold might argue, and Harold does seem to be putting some thought into the suggestion. John blows across the surface of the coffee again, then drinks half the cup in two swallows. Then Harold says, "Yes, it would probably do me some good to be out of this chair for a while. We could sit in the park, if you'd like."

"Don't get much opportunity to enjoy nature." 

John finishes his coffee, and lobs the crumpled cardboard easily into the small trash can that's against the opposite wall. He catches Harold's eyes as they track the movement, and Harold says quietly, "I hope you don't take the ease with which you move for granted."

John, having recovered from various injuries in various countries across the globe, definitely does not. 

It's cooler outside the library than in, but sunny. John slips on his sunglasses and allows Harold to set their walking pace. He's quick enough when the situation warrants, but for right now, he looks a little tired, and they can be leisurely. Until the Machine gives them a number. 

"You should get some shades, Harold," John says, as Harold squints slightly in the new, bright sunlight. "Don't they make those clip-on things?"

"You're quite the comedian today, Mr. Reese." A moment later, and the lenses of Harold's glasses darken. 

The sidewalk is busy but not overly crowded, so John walks next to Harold instead of behind him. It's a few blocks to the park. Ahead, he sees a sign for coffee and asks, "You want another tea?," gesturing to the storefront.

"No, you go ahead. I'll wait out here." Harold tucks himself under the awning and gives John an expectant look. 

John gets Harold another green tea anyway. "Give you something to do while we sit in the park," he says.

There's an empty bench under a little shade. John sees it first and steers Harold towards it with a gentle touch to the back of his arm. He lets Harold take the shadier part. They sit without talking for a while; John watching the people in the market, thinking to himself that it's actually sort of nice to people-watch without doing it because he's tailing someone, for once. 

It gets warm enough in the sun that he shrugs off his jacket after a few minutes and rolls up his sleeves. He sees Harold turn his upper body slightly to look over at him. "What, you're not sweating?" John asks, and smiles. 

"You gave me the shady part of the bench," Harold replies. He gives John a stiff, hesitant smile. "John…"

"Just enjoy it, Harold." 

They sit in silence a while longer, John drinking his coffee slowly, keeping one eye on Harold taking careful sips of his tea. Then Harold gestures at a nearby tree, directing John's attention to one of the branches. "There's a European Starling there," he says. "With the shiny head. That's what he looks like in the summer."

"How do you know the bird isn't a girl, Finch?" 

A smile cracks Harold's face, pulling his mouth upward at one corner. "I don't, Mr. Reese."

"Well… go on."

"In the winter, the European Starling is a tan brown, a bit fluffy. Not sleek like you see now. They're actually an invasive species - in 1890 there was a man who thought it would be a good idea to release specimens of all birds mentioned in Shakespeare in Central Park."

John watches the bird for a moment. "Let me guess, some liked America, and some didn't."

"An accurate an analysis as any, Mr. Reese," Harold murmurs. "In 1960, a flock of starlings flew into the engine of an airplane. Crashed it in Boston. Killed sixty-two people."

"Perhaps humanity shouldn't meddle with nature." The starling hops to another branch, then another, then flies away. John watches until he can't see it anymore. "What other birds did this man let go?"

"Song thrushes. Skylarks." Harold pauses. "Bullfinches."

John smiles into his cup, finishes off what's left of the coffee. 

"A hundred starlings were released, in total. Now they number about two hundred million."

"Two hundred million," John repeats, under his breath. 

Overhead, birds he can't identify wheel in the air, then dart off, clearly chasing one another. Something touches his hand, and John looks down to see Harold's fingers overlapping his for a moment, then moving away. "Shall we get some lunch, Mr. Reese?" Harold asks, his gaze on the sky. 

"Sure, Finch," John can't help but say.

"In a moment, though. There's an Eastern Bluebird resting on that light pole."

John doesn't even know what an Eastern Bluebird looks like, much less why seeing one is making Harold's face light up. "Sure, Finch," he repeats, and is rewarded with another brush of Harold's fingers over his.


End file.
